When The Day Met The Night
by gastlyhauntergengar
Summary: "When the moon found the sun, he looked like he was barely hanging on, but her eyes saved his life." A series of drabbles about the relationship between Crona and Maka.
1. 01 Candlelight

**Author's Note: **So I've decided to do one of those Drabble Challenges for my Soul Eater OTP, which is Crona/Maka, and I'm going off of some list I found that has single words as prompts. This is the first of (hopefully) many though it turned out being way longer than a drabble, lol.

Anyway this is one of my favorite parings in any show ever, and there's way too little fic about their relationship so feel free to watch as I sit here and add a whole bunch of my rambly words to the CroMa canon~

Most of these are going to be "missing scene" meta moments that are meant to take place between Chapter 24 and Chapter 32 in the manga (that's anime episodes 26 through like 33-ish or something). Some will veer off from there eventually though and follow the manga storyline when they do, as opposed to the anime storyline.

(Edit 2/7: I'm also gonna be putting dates at the beginning of these because I'm not gonna go in linear time order, but I hve no clue whether these were the actual dates in the canon story, lol)

* * *

**01. Candlelit**

-_ October 27, 2009 -_

Maka's been having dreams about Crona lately. Ever since she held him after their second battle she's been dreaming of him really, but lately, the dreams have been of the more romantic variety.

In the one she has tonight, she and Crona are in his room in the dungeon at night. Maka is outside of her own body, gazing down at the two of them from someplace above. She can see herself and him standing in the middle of room, wrapped in each other's arms; Crona's hands rest around her lower back and his head rests in the crook of her shoulder. It looks as if they're slow-dancing, even though there's no music, and the moonlight from the room's sole window falls on them like a spotlight.

Crona whispers something into Maka's ear, but as she's somehow exited her body she can't hear what it is. Crona then kisses her, his hands slipping round her back tighter, and she feels this pull like she wants to be back inside her body to feel him, but also that it's captivating to watch what she doesn't usually get to see. From where she is, she can see the way Crona's hands tremble at her back; she can see the way his brow pinches like her kisses are devastating him, the way his hips gravitate towards her and his knees seem to be struggling not to give out, the way he looks weak.

In the brightness of the moonlight, Maka can see how much her being with him really does affect him. She watches as Crona pulls away and gazes at her, saying more whispered words and then nervously pulling at the hem of her shirt—something he never does outside her dreams—helping her tug it over her head and slowly roaming his hands across her now-naked back.

Maka feels that frustrated pull again, like she's straining to get a closer look and like she can't see him clearly enough. Just then, it's as if something knocks Crona's focus out of alignment and calls his name; he pauses abruptly, hesitation coloring his cheeks, and then slowly backs away, glances up at the place Maka's point of view is watching from.

When he sees that she's somehow outside of her body, he jumps away from the body in front of him like he's just seen a ghost, and suddenly the moonlight from outside cuts out, the room becoming nothing but blackness.

And when Maka wakes up from her dream, her bedroom is pitch black as well.

She glances over at the clock—it's only eight, she thinks sheepishly—and wonders why it's so dark in here. The light from the living room isn't still flooding in the doorway like it was when she fell asleep, and neither is the light from her desk lamp, but Soul has to still be awake and in the house since she can hear voices in the next room.

Maka slowly gets out of bed, hair ruffled up from the bed and a blank around her shoulders, fumbling around with her feet for her slippers. When she wanders into the living room, she finds all the lights out in there too, sans a faint, orange glow coming from behind the couch. When she walks over she sees Soul, Tsubaki and Black Star sitting on the floor surrounded by candles, with beer cans and playing cards around them.

She frowns when they all look up at her.

"Blackout," Soul offers, shrugging. "Been like this a few hours."

Maka sighs and takes a seat on the floor next to her partner.

Had she really been asleep that long? She intended to just take a short nap as a stress reliever; it's a Saturday, but she's been devoting the weekend to studying for a big midterm exam come Monday (unlike the rest of her friends, she sees). She was at it for six hours this afternoon in the library, and eight yesterday, pretty much only taking breaks to eat and sleep…oh, and visit with Crona.

"Hey Maka, nice try trying to style your hair like mine but yours just looks like you stuck your finger in a socket," Black Star says of Maka's bed hair, and Tsubaki promptly shushes him. Maka ignores the twitching urge she feels to grab a book.

"Wait, why are you two here?" she asks, glancing over at Tsubaki and Black Star, shrouded in shadows. The latter cracks open a new beer; she makes a face. "And where'd you get all this beer from?"

"Sid doesn't keep a good enough eye on his stash, that's where," says Black Star.

"And we're here because the power is out at our place too," Tsubaki says. "We came over because we thought maybe it was just us, but it turns out the whole city is like this."

Maka would ask what happened tonight, but figures they're just as clueless as she is.

"It's pretty trippy," Soul adds. "If you look out the window right now you can't see a thing."

Maka picks herself up and makes her way to the window, perching herself on the sill. Death City is indeed completely shrouded in blackness, and so is the sky, since it's a new moon. From her and Soul's apartment, she can usually see Shibusen all lit up at the top of its hill, but now all she can vaguely make out is the shadowy shapes of the spires poking out from the roof, pitched against the near-pitch sky. No lights are coming from inside the building or anywhere nearby, which means that everyone inside there right now…

Which means that everyone underneath the building right now…

"Crona!"

The other three start and turn to look at her.

"I have to get to him, he's already been there by himself for hours—"

Maka jumps off the sill suddenly and darts in the direction of the kitchen. The others can hear as she rattles open a drawer in the next room. She blocks out the image of Crona sitting alone in that corner, triggered and rendered motionless by a nightmare from his past—or worse, sitting there with Ragnarok beating on him like a nightmare from his past—and frantically feels around for the extra candles she knows are there. She grabs eight or nine and slams the drawer back shut, then, with them bundled under one arm, she stops to pick up one of the lit candles next to Soul and half-runs towards the front door.

"Maka—" prompts Soul.

"I have to get to him," she repeats, reaching to grab her jacket from its hook on the wall, "Who knows how long the lights will be out and he shouldn't be in a room like that by himself all night—"

"He's just as old as we are, right?" Black Star questions. "Pretty sure he wouldn't still be afraid of the dark..."

"And besides, there are other people who stay overnight at school aren't there?" Soul posits. "Maybe he wandered around and found some company or something."

Maka knows Crona better than that. When she fumbles around for the doorhandle, still hardheaded to reach him, Soul stands.

"Wait, you can't go by yourself—" he attempts.

Maka huffs out, "I'll be fine," and the door slams shut behind her, leaving the room quiet.

Soul only hesitates for a moment before sitting back down and shaking his head.

"Aren't you s'posed to go run after her or whatever?" Black Star says.

Soul smiles. "Nah. Hell or highwater she's gonna see him tonight, with or without me. When she sets her mind to something she does it, and she's been set on this guy since she got inside his soul."

Maka makes her way towards school at a steady pace in the dark, jacket and blanket wrapped firmly around shoulders. It's not too hard to traipse through Death City with the candle she took for light, always illuminating the road a foot or two before her, but there are a few times some noises and shadows from the alleys startle her on the way; thankfully she's been to school so many times that she's memorized how to get there in about ten minutes, and thankfully it's not yet ten P.M. so the giant, front doors to the academy haven't been locked yet.

Once inside, she runs down the empty main hall and straight for the dungeon stairwell on the first floor. By the time she gets down it and reaches Crona's door at the end of one way, she's nearly out of breath—she knocks on the door twice, rattles the handle to find it locked, and then calls out for him.

"Crona? It's Maka—"

On the other side of the door, Crona is, as Maka figured, cramped up in a corner, face to his knees, breathing labored, limbs trembling. His hands are balled into fists in his hair, his back is sore from Ragnarok's fists and he can't remember how long it's been dark, but the voice at the door makes him flinch, his stomach lurching and triggering more nausea.

It's her outside that door. It was only ever her, she's found him somehow and is punishing him in this room the way she always used to. It was a joke that he ever thought he was safe here, even though they said she was gone she always told him she'd be there for him, and she's waiting now, this whole Shibusen thing was just a set-up. The time he'd spent in happiness was just a cruel trick she'd been playing to make him think he'd gotten away, to reprimand him for ever trying and even Maka has been in on it, he's a horrible person and will never be forgiven for all that blood—

"Crona?"

He swallows around the stony lump in his throat.

That voice sounds gentle, but then Medusa did used to know how to sound deceptively sweet, didn't she?

"If you're in there, I brought you some light," the voice continues.

His heart feels like it's Maka, but then he's still so anxious to trust his heart…it even used to love her regardless sometimes, even after all the times she tortured him, left him all alone…

More knocks, slower and gentler this time, but Crona clenches his eyes tighter and hugs his knees closer, tenses even harder at the thought of his mother. It gets worse when he feels the dull pain of Ragnarok surging beneath the skin of his back again, and this really is just like back then, isn't it? with Ragnarok a permanent reminder of the woman who'd always own him. Crona winces at the familiar thunk of the weapon clobbering around on top of his head.

"It's the cow-bitch outside, you idiot," Ragnarok squeaks, grabbing onto Crona's hands and rattling his head back and forth; the boy lets out a muffled whimper into his knees. "You know she'll stand there all night waiting for you, so let her in so I don't have to listen to her keep knocking like that!"

"Hey! I told you stop calling me 'cow-bitch'!" comes Maka's voice from outside.

Crona opens his eyes only to finds the same darkness in front of him, the room as black as the shut of his eyelids. He can't even tell what room he's in anymore as the stone wall at his back feels the same as that one did and what if he's been in that house with her this whole time? Time lost on one when they're in darkness for days, and here he is in darkness once again—

"Just you try to stop me!" Ragnarok yells back at Maka, thudding his fists against Crona's head and making it throb— "Ragnarok, please, stop," Crona's voice is rough from disuse— "You're not the boss of either of us, you heifer!"

The doorknob rattles once more.

"Crona," Maka says softly.

There's a pause. Crona keeps his eyes open, waiting raptly to hear the voice speak again.

"If you don't want to let me in, that's okay," she says. "But remember that I'm always right here, okay?"

This voice has to be different from his mother's, he thinks. This voice makes him want to feel things, to feel warm. It's soothing.

"Only if you want to, you can find me out here."

His heart skips a beat, he swallows, and then he hears something moving against the door—the sound of Maka sitting up against it.

In moments like these, Maka feels as though she is a stranger to Crona.

Like the door against her back is keeping her from a world she cannot understand, a darkness that Crona carries with him so thick that his sanity had once suffocated in it. As well as she's come to know him thus far, there's still a part within him that is shrouded in mystery and privacy, hidden beneath even her view of his soul. Whatever it was he went through as a child, whatever horrors he witnessed as he constantly slipped in and out of that darkness, finding his body coated in others' blood in its wake and not knowing whether it thrilled him or sickened him—that is the Crona she does not know, the twisted boy infected by the black blood within him, the sixteen year old who's suffered things that age him beyond his years.

Maka shivers a little. It's cold in the hall and she's cold whenever she thinks about what Crona must be up against. She huddles in on herself more, holding the candle near to her face and closing her eyes. For a moment she wants to feel helpless, but she tries to hold onto the hope that she really is helping him.

The dream she had earlier comes back to mind…the way Crona looked as she kissed him, weak and overwhelmed, makes her head swim when she thinks about it. But then again, Maka also feels somewhat guilty; for liking that weakness, for wanting to see it up close, for being such a girl and wanting Crona in a very human, romantic way that she's not sure he can handle fully reciprocating.

She thinks about it a lot, now. It didn't help that they'd had their first kiss not long after he got there, that she's been sleeping in his bed and holding him, that Crona, though this is his first time experiencing human contact, is open to the intimacy, even though he shakes each time she guides him thought it. Being so physically close to Crona so often in her everyday life was of course going to cause stronger urges for him to fester; she's sixteen and so is he, and this is the first time she's really been touched by a boy but she's been dreaming about it for years, and her feelings towards this boy were bound to run deep because she'd been to a place in his soul where noone else had been before. But she tries not to think about the idea that she may be an intruder, that wanting to be with Crona physically is selfish, that drawing this close and kissing him so eagerly so soon after his trauma may be doing more harm than good.

On the other side of the door, Crona is still too scared to move, at first.

He stays tucked in on himself in the corner a while longer, plugging his ears as Ragnarok continues to hit him and taunt him—"stop being a pansy and open the door!"—to which he can sometimes hear Maka's faint rebuttals from outside.

What feels like an hour passes, and after Ragnarok's slipped back under his skin due to irritation, Crona lets his hands fall from his face, slowly flattens them out against the cold floor. His fingers follow along the rough ridges of the stone; this doesn't feel like the tile from home, those floors were smooth; this doesn't feel like that place. His eyes still staring into blackness, he relaxes his posture somewhat, propping himself up onto his knees and shakily crawling away from the corner.

_"I'm always right here, okay?"_ Her familiar voice echoes in his head._ "Only if you want to, you can find me out here."_

"Maka?"

His heart sinks at the second of pause, but she responds a beat later.

"Yeah." That's her voice, clear as day. "I'm still here."

Crona crawls forward, opens the door, and finds Maka sitting in the hallway holding a single candle, hair down and eyes calm.

Maka's chest feels tight when she sees the frail boy hunched over behind the door. In Crona's dark eyes there is leftover distress, and a flicker of a vulnerable and distrustful fear, displaced onto Maka, meant for someone else.

Wordlessly, she stands up, and Crona unsteadily tries to do the same. He moves back a little to let her in, then closes the door behind them.

Maka quickly settles down on the floor and starts to light up all the candles she brought. She uses the sole flame from the first candle to give a second one life; Crona watches as the glow catches on, as the aura of each flickers near her face and each candle gradually begins to shine as she sets them up all over the floor. One by one, they start to fill the room with a soft, orange glow, making shadows dance along the tall walls, casting their forms against it, and Crona starts to see familiar things appear all around him, tucked away against the walls—the checkered bed in the corner, the outline of the window up high on the wall, the lamp, powerless on the desk—

Crona looks around the dungeon room, at its stones, at the furniture, at the floor, and then at Maka, who's placing the last candle on the corner of his desk, near the lamp. When he looks at the lamp, the shade of it woven with a beautiful thread, he remembers the first few nights he spent in this room, each of them nights of a new moon like this one. It had gotten so dark that he'd panicked every night, unable to sleep and hyperventilating in the corner. When he told Maka he couldn't sleep well a few days later, she first told him that if he ever needed her to stay with him, he could always ask (which he didn't know how to deal with at first, so she'd invited herself over in time); and then she bought him a lamp from the antique store to keep on on nights she couldn't be by his side.

When it went off with the power tonight, he couldn't see a thing again. For some reason it'd made him feel like he'd forgotten who he was now, or where he was now. But now…

Now all of a sudden, he's not alone in that room anymore, and Maka has appeared before him, an angel shrouded in light.

It's becoming the story of his life, really.

She looks at him from across his room with those pretty, olive eyes and his stomach gets butterflies.

He gazes down at the candles on the floor, running a hand across the back of his neck.

"How did you know to bring these for me?" he asks.

"I'm always thinking about you," Maka says, like it's so simple. "When I woke up and realized that the power was out, I thought about you down here by yourself and wanted to make sure you were okay."

Maka walks back towards the center of the room, removing the blanket from her shoulders and smoothing it out across the floor, sitting on it. Crona stays standing a few feet away, unsure of whether he should move.

"Are you okay?" Maka looks hesitant about sitting, now. "I can go back if you want." She starts to stand. "You can keep the candles, I don't—"

"No," Crona interrupts. "I—I want you here."

He sits cross-legged on the blanket too as Maka settles back down, and sighs, shutting his eyes, to release his tension.

_Breathe,_ Crona thinks. Maka used to have to tell him, but now he can hear her voice telling him in his head. He takes a deep breath, and Maka watches; the inhale is deep but the exhale is shaky, his shoulders shudder and he shivers. He presses his lips together, nearly biting down on them, and Maka holds out her hands towards him at the same time he reaches for them.

Their fingers clasp and Crona squeezes her hands very slowly, over and over, breathing in time with the pressure of each squeeze to help him focus. It takes a long time for that to calm him; she watches as he eventually opens his eyes, focuses on the laces of their hands, at the press of their skin. Then after some time he's back to breathing silently, and his hands go limp. She supports them in her own, and he stares down at the floor and she says nothing. Waiting, she lets him process whatever's going on in his mind; she can only imagine.

After a while, Crona takes one hand and wipes his eyes—she hadn't realized he'd been starting to cry—sitting up perfectly straight and looking at her solemnly.

"Are you tired, Maka?" Crona says.

She smiles softly to assure him.

"No, I'm okay. I took way too long of a nap earlier so I'll probably be up for a while."

He nods once and then sighs again, looking somber.

"I don't know why this keeps happening," he says, eyes flickering down to the floor in embarrassment. "I get—when it gets too dark, I always think that I—" He can't finish the thought.

Maka gently runs her thumb over his knuckles.

"It'll just take more time to get used to being here, that's all," she reminds him. "We talked about this."

Crona's eyes shyly find their way back to hers; he blushes once they meet and the butterflies' wings flutter rapidly.

"Yes, but…" He pauses and the look in Maka's eyes softens. "I don't want my time here with you to be over." He stares at their hands, at the slow circles Maka's thumb is drawing across his skin. "I-I keep thinking that it's going to end somehow, and I…"

"No matter what, you're always going to have me," Maka says, and she'll say it over and over. She squeezes his hand. "Always, okay?"

Crona nods, and Maka kisses the top of one of his hands.

Though his hands start to tremble in response, he takes hers and presses them to his lips, kissing his "thank you"s against them, their eyes still locked.

Maka moves to lay down on her side on the blanket, still keeping one hand tangled in Crona's and he leads where she follows, facing her on his side as well. They hold hands and gaze at each other, eyes saying more than words could, candlelight around them dancing across each other's features.

Maka notices the shadows beneath Crona's eyes, the way his lashes fan out and the shape of his eyes, so round and alien, the irises so velvety dark. She recognizes his distinctive bone structure, its slight otherness and sharpness and the way his beige skin, stretched thinly over it, is stained by an dark, otherworldly blush. It all reminds her that he's not all human, and it makes her fascination with him spark anew like it does every time she gets to look at him closely. She focuses her eyes on his lips; the lower is fuller, pink and naturally swollen and she thinks she's starting to memorize the way it feels against her own. She does not kiss him now, though. She simply looks, admiring the way that Crona's face reflects who he is on the inside as well.

And for Crona, Maka is so stabilizing, so calming; looking into her eyes tonight remind him of the clear water that laps gently at the shores of his soul now, constant, giving, reviving, and kind. Her skin looks so clear and soft, and he wants very badly to run his fingers down her cheek so he moves his hand to, though he frowns a bit and is hesitant; when he pauses before touching her, tenses and the timidity and the fear she recognizes slowly widens in his eyes, she catches his hand in hers again and draws it to her own face. She closes her eyes then, and as Crona stares, it scares him to think that he wants nothing else but to feel her skin against the palm of his hand, but to touch another, real person as proof of his survival from the nightmare.

These emotions, this desire to be close to her, this light he finds himself lying in with her, it's all a world she introduced and one he never could've imagined happening; he feels its unfair that somehow someone in his life could be so compassionate towards him, what could he've done to deserve it?

Maka Albarn may only be a dream, he thinks sometimes…a tactile and intimate and soft to the touch dream, but even if she is he wants never to wake, never to walk outside his room and find the nightmare still waiting for him; he would rather waste away and die here in her imaginary arms if she's not real.

No, Crona doesn't want to think about that; he takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and tells himself that all of this is real no matter how much doubt he may still have—he really is safe and sound at Shibusen, he really has met this wonderful person who cares and wants to help him, his mother really is gone, and fresh water runs through the rivers of his soul for the first time, quenching the drought he did not know would ever end.

No matter what, you're always going to have me.

They lie there across from each other, eyes shut, minds at ease. Crona's hand cradles her jaw and hers rests on top of his, and opens her eyes after some time to find that Crona is starting to fall asleep. She moves his hand back down to rest on the blanket, moves in closer to him, and softly kisses his forehead, cradling his head in her hand.

Before long, she can hear his gentle snores.

Maka stares at the dungeon ceiling, grateful that Crona can rest now in the dim flicker of candelight. As she moves to reposition herself onto other side, she hears Crona groan faintly in his sleep. She turns back over, watching as a thick streak of black blood creeps out of his back and materializes as Ragnarok, situating itself on Crona's head and staring at Maka with its eerie, round white eyes.

"You're not gonna keep getting away with this you know," Ragnarok squeaks.

Maka smiles.

"I'm sorry that you still don't like me," she replies quietly, "but you're gonna have to keep getting used to me." She glances down at Crona, who's frowning a little, but still asleep. "I care about him a lot," she adds, smile fading, and her eyes meet Ragnarok's strong and resolute. "And I don't give up just because someone or something is tough."

Ragnarok growls. "We don't need you, you scrawny little parasite!"

"You're one to talk!" Maka whispers harshly.

Ragnarok gives up on the argument sooner than she expects, grumbling some slur as he slides back beneath Crona's skin, and the room is quiet once again. Maka looks at Crona again, and remnants of Ragnarok words echo in her mind—_you won't get away with this, he doesn't need you—_

If the thoughts start to create a pit of doubt in her stomach, Maka instantly tries to bury the uneasy feeling. Instead, she moves in closer to Crona and runs her fingers through the tresses of his hair, softly kissing him on the forehead, reminding him of her over and over.

_I know you'll be okay._ She cradles Crona's face in her hands in the way that she knows comforts him, hoping he can feel her affection for him even in his sleep.

_I know you will._

In his dreams, Crona and Maka are on the beach, and the ocean is cleansing his soul.

And all night, Maka watches the candles slowly burn and the sky begin to lighten outside with the sun, finally falling asleep when the room is light enough that Crona will feel safe when he awakens.


	2. 04 Two's Company

**04. Two's Company**

_- September 12__th__, 2009 -_

A few days after Crona's trial run finds Maka still showing him around the Shibusen campus, conducting personal tours of her own. While the first tour or two had been very structured, and also supervised by Marie, the next few include Maka taking Crona to her favorite small corners, secret rooms, and hideouts; the peaceful little nooks and crannies where no one can find her when she wants to get lost in a book by herself, the home-y and familiar places her dad led her to when she used to wander around school with him as a child.

Crona is becoming less and less nervous each time he leaves his room to meet with her, Maka notices; though, not by very much. He's still jumpy and he still has a hard time speaking to most others without stuttering—and Maka doesn't think she's seen him smile yet, or at leastgenuinely-but it helps put him at ease when she walks around with him on campus after-hours, when crowds of other students aren't around. A lot of them have been staring at Crona like he's an alien in the hallways since he's arrived; and Maka supposes he is in some respects (what with Ragnarok dangling from his back at times), but they could at least try to hide their open mouths and whispers when he passes, it'd certainly irritate her less. Crona hasn't said anything about it yet, but she can already tell he's very sensitive to others' reactions to him; that he winces and curls in on himself whenever he notices even so much as odd glance pointed in his direction, even from the people who are friendly to him like Soul and Black Star and Maka's other friends.

Today, it's late afternoon and Maka is giving Crona a more in-depth look at the gigantic library, which they'd only stopped by briefly thusfar. And when the two of them are alone, or at least nearly alone, the way they are now, Maka can feel a calmness coming from Crona's soul wavelength.

It's a nice feeling being next to him, she thinks; she looks over at him as he stares up at the high-reaching ceiling in awe, at the cases upon cases of books that surround them like a safehaven. What she likes most about being able to perceive other's souls is that the especially kind and compassionate souls—like Tsubaki's, like Marie's—tend to give her a pleasant and peaceful feeling in her chest just by being close to them. Crona's is like that, too; for all that his wavelength had felt so jarring and disturbing those times she'd fought against him, Crona's real soul wavelength is surprisingly soothing, now that Ragnarok's madness and Medusa's cruelty are no longer encrusting it.

Crona the person is surprising as a whole, she finds. In contrast to the brittleness and uncertainty he often resonates, the nervousness that is clearly tangible to most others who interact with, Maka has personally seen within the last few days that Crona is naturally gentle, and good, and considerate, underneath the nervous layers. He's polite and thoughtful; always asking if he can do such and such, always letting others step before him or lead the way, always asking if Maka would prefer something first. His voice is soft too, and the innocence of his big, round, almost vacant eyes makes Maka think that the real Crona wouldn't deign to pick the wings off a fly.

And when he's just with her, just with Maka, there is no tremoring or agitation coming from his wavelength the way there is when he's around others. He doesn't stutter as much, his posture visibly relaxes, sometimes he blushes, almost-smiles. Maka has noticed the subtle differences that come just with her presence, an unfair advantage to having soul perception maybe, but it's made her even more comfortable around him and even more eager to help, more curious about this new person who she accidentally discovered.

And so it feels natural to walk with him down the main hall of the library, side by side, this afternoon.

"The references and encyclopedias are all on the left side, stacks A through G," Maka is explaining. "Those are all the books you'll mostly need for school. The desk over there is how you can reach other floors, and as one star students we're technically not supposed to borrow books from anywhere but here, but…"

Crona glances over at her. "But?"

Maka looks over her shoulder, then reaches into the pocket of her blazer and shows him her dad's ID card.

"I have ways of getting around it," she says, smiling. It's a shitty thing for her to do, stealing his belongings and also using his status to get ahead—("You really do like being his daughter!" she can hear Soul taunting her)—but her dad owes her anyway for how creepy and weird he is, though now's not the time to kill her nice afternoon with Crona with thoughts about Spirit…

"My favorite book is in this section." Maka leads Crona to the M through N stacks, staring up admiringly at all the familiar titles as Crona runs his fingertips over the worn bindings, the gold trimming, like they're all a new world. "It's called Dark Side of the Moon, it's the first part of a trilogy and actually, it's right—"

When Maka's fingers slowly brush against his Crona realizes he's been running his hand over just the book.

"Here," Maka says.

Crona flushes; Maka's hands are so soft and warm, and every time she touches him even just a little, it's intoxicating. He slides his fingers out from under hers at about the same time Maka pulls the book out and then places it in his open palms.

"Why don't you read it?" Maka says with a grin. "I'm sure you'd like it."

Their hands are touching beneath the book. While Crona feels somewhat dizzy from the contact with a girl, (he still doesn't know how to sort out these overwhelming feelings he sometimes feels around girls), Maka feels his soul wavelength get warmer for a moment, a heat she can feel slightly resonating around her own soul (and that feeling is a little wonderful, she thinks.)

"Um," Crona says, breaking their eye contact to look at the book. "I-I'm not sure if I'm allowed to check things out like this, since I'm not really...since I…"

"Don't worry, I can let you borrow anything you want." Maka's hands leave his and turns back to the bookshelf for a moment, thumbing through titles. "What kinds of things do you like to read?"

Images from the pages of violent books flash through Crona's mind—crisp, black ink streaks of gore and mutilation—instructions on how to sever a spine, rip out a throat, dismember limbs—

He shakes the images away.

"M-my mother had a library in her h-house…" Crona's voice betrays him only a little. He clears his throat, staring down at the floor so that Maka can't look at him in all his disgrace with those welcoming eyes—I don't deserve to be here with her—I'm a bad person— "I-if I was good, I was allowed to read some of her nice stories sometimes. I liked um, Frankenstein, and Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde."

Well those aren't very nice stories, Maka thinks sympathetically.

Maka goes down the hall a bit, searching for two books she knows are in this section somewhere—aha. Their spines are thick, the covers are worn and brown and fringed, but they're two of her favorite classics written by women, of course; she carries them over to him.

"Maybe you'll like these," she says cheerfully, handing both the books off to him; Crona fumbles to balances them on the one already in his hands. "Wuthering Heights and Jane Eyre, they're sorta in the same genre as Frankenstein but not really, and they don't have very happy endings but I still think they're worth the read."

Crona nods, one corner of his mouth twitching, face visibly relaxing once more.

"T-thank you."

After showing him a few more of her favorite reading selections, Maka leads him to a more secluded corner of the library, against the back wall, behind the Y through Z stacks. She shows him up a ladder that leads to a small, dim balcony on the second floor, and a small, unlatched wooden door; inside is a wood-paneled, low-ceilinged room full of empty boxes, shelves, covered furniture, and plenty of dust.

"They used to use this for storage, but ever since they built new backrooms downstairs this one's mostly empty," Maka explains, softly closing the door behind them. "None of the library workers will notice you go up here as long as you stay quiet."

Along one of the walls, in front of the sole, floor-to-ceiling window in the back corner, Maka has placed a little set up of books that are stacked up high enough to create a sort of alcove; the space inside the book-stack-cave is adorned by stolen library furniture from downstairs: two fancy tablecloths spread across the floor like blankets, a few candlesticks from the walls, some floral and cacti table centerpieces; a cozy, clandestine spot that looks very decidedly Maka.

Crona likes it. He watches as Maka goes to it, as she sits down in her little cove and kicks off her shoes, picks up one of the most peculiar looking plant pieces—it looks like it has a gnarled mouth growing from it, with dozens of sharp little teeth—and shows its face to him. She smiles and looks so comfortable and at home, and he really does like the warm, silver-hazel color of her hair, he randomly notices now, and her hair does look so silky to the touch…all of these things he notices about her makes him feel another dizzy-spell in his head…

"S-so no one bothers you up here?" Crona asks, self-consciously (sub-consciously) folding a hand across his thin body.

"Nope!" Maka puts the plant back down, drawing her knees to her chest, settling her back against a stack of books, wiggling her toes. "It's been niceand quiet up here for months."

Crona sets down his books on the floor and crawls onto the tablecloth-blanket, moving to sit and lean up against the stack of books opposite from Maka; their feet nearly touch. but not quite, and Crona sits comfortably and politely with his knees closed, and is situated in front of most of the window, where the light flowing in from outside lets him see the dust particles that float and flutter around the room, like microscopic little birds.

Crona takes a deep breath, and notices that Maka is flipping through a book at her side absently, so he turns to looks out the window. He still hasn't gotten past the novelty of the blue, day sky and the sunlight out there, of being able to view them whenever he wants to…he hadn't been able to do that before.

There are a lot of things happening now that he wasn't able to do before.

Like sit across from a real girl. Maka, who was not a witch and was happy and bright like the sun, without the fear that he was going have to hurt her someday. The fact that the girl across from him is his friend now, and is nice to him and has spent all this time just to show him around this new place he's going to live.

And thinking about all that, he smiles to himself, and Maka notices. It's a genuine smile, closed-lipped but pulling at the corners of his pink lips and faintly reaching his eyes, and it suits Crona so much and she wonders how someone who's been through so much hardship could be so gentle and so cute. As he smiles, she feels his soul wavelength spread out and wrap itself around her own in a warm embrace, and normally she'd recognize the feeling as a crush…

"Hey," Maka says, and now that his eyes are on her she's not sure why she interrupted, or what she wanted to say, (or what it is about Crona's eyes that draws her in so).

Rather, she can feel her cheeks and ears growing warm and she wants to scold her face for being so obvious about her feelings…What feelings?...

"What are you thinking about?" Maka asks, fidgeting with the hem of her skirt, but still looking into his eyes.

"Oh um, nothing." Crona similarly fidgets with one of his sleeves, and when he looks down suddenly Maka instantly notices the way the dark blood within him stains his face.

"This is a nice place," he comments, looking back outside the window; the momentary jitters his soul had just emitted relaxed again into soothing wavelengths, and Maka was glad. Crona's hands settle back into his lap, and his eyes look sort of distant, Maka notes the way the blue sky from the window is reflected in the cool, dark pools that are his irises.

"I…like it, here."

Crona mutters it, mostly to himself. He seems to be having an introspective moment of some sort, and his expression has softened to one of childlike repose. Not for the first time Maka wonders what he is thinking, but knows that she still doesn't know him very well, that that's none of her business really; she's just glad to watch him feel at ease. Maka joins him after a moment and sits beside him to look out at the window, at the view of the sky and the city and the outstretched Nevada sand; the familiar cobblestone streets and cliffs and the obtuse sun with it's wide, drooling mouth, which she have always called her home.

She doesn't know what Crona is looking at outside of this window exactly; his eyes stay fixed on one spot somewhere out there in the blue distance, at the horizon line, maybe. But she supposes that's just it; Crona is looking at everything, taking it all in, and the wonder he finds in all of his surroundings makes her wonder what it must be like to see the whole world with brand new eyes, such as he is.

The thought makes her smile, and makes her so, so grateful that she found a way to reach him the way that she has.

Such a kind soul will no longer go to waste.

"Maka?"

"D-do you…um." He looks back at the door through which they came. "We don't have to stay here, if you wouldn't like to…"

Maka shrugs and smiles warmly. "We can stay as long as you want to, Crona. It's up to you."

If Crona looks surprised that she is so open to his freedoms, it's only for a moment. Then he nods, and Maka feels the warmth from his soul wrap around hers again.

"Okay."

He re-situates himself against the stack, staring out of the window. After a while, he closes his eyes and rests and just breathes, and momentarily, that smile from before reappears on his face again.

Maka smiles too, and wonders just what the world is going to have in store for her new, sweet friend.


	3. 02 Dress Up

**A/N**: Thank you for the reviews so far guys! Glad you're enjoying these~

* * *

**02. Dress Up**

_-September 18__th__, 2009-_

One of the first things Maka noticed about Crona, upon meeting him that night in the Novella church, was the long, old-fashioned black gown that he wore. It was a strange thing for a boy to wear, she'd thought briefly, (and she _could _tell Crona was a boy despite the skirt…she didn't know why, she just could), but then it wasn't _really _a traditional dress; the stiff collar and sleeves made it look more like something a priest or a nun would wear, rather than something fancy or elegant.

And Crona doesn't look bad in it, considering; sort of uncomfortable, like the garment is too heavy and the collar's a bit prickly, but something about it is sleek, too, and somewhat flattering. (Maka can't put her finger on what exactly makes it flattering when she looks at him; it's a pretty bleak outfit objectively, and she's not big on fashion but even she'd be concerned if she saw anyone else walking around in that thing; is it the contrast between the sweeps of dark fabric and the pallor of his skin? Is it the abnormal caginess of the gown, the obscurity of it, in contrast to the gentle and open person that Maka is realizing Crona is underneath the layers? Or is it the way that it gathers just so at his tiny little waist, the swoop of the skirt accentuating what follows?)

(Maybe it's that Maka is thinking entirely too much about one piece of clothing, and about Crona in general...she's glad that none of her friends have noticed her tendency to stare at him in some of her idle moments yet, in her rapt observance of him and his mannerisms; she knows Soul'll tease her for it, the way he always does when she finds a new obsession to study...)

During his first week at school, Crona continues to wear the oddly-becoming black "dress" every day. He calls it his "robe," and Ragnarok has emerged from the slit in the back of the garment to inform Maka that it's "drag."

One afternoon at lunch, when Crona leaves the table for a moment to re-fill his tray, Crona's clothing choice becomes the brief topic of conversation between Maka and friends (mostly Maka's friends).

"Crona's cool," Black Star says to the group of them, "but what's with that creepy funeral dress he's always wearing?"

Soul chuckles and Maka elbows him in the gut, frowning at Black Star.

"It's not a dress," she corrects, (_"Ow,"_Soul supplies), "_he_ says that it's a robe."

"It sure looks like a dress," Patty comments, "but it's a cool dress! I want one."

"Did Lord Death not give him a choice of uniform, like he did with all of us when we got here?" Tsubaki asks.

"I don't know," Maka says, concerned. "He is still a trial student, so maybe not…"

She looks over her shoulder to look at Crona, who's having a hard time maneuvering through the crowd of students without wanting to bump into anyone; she's acutely aware of those students who are passing by him brusquely as if he's in the way, or staring at him (and at how long the length of his skirt is specifically) as if he's a fish out of water, and it makes her want to get up and personally clear a path for him herself to make him feel like he fits in somewhere.

To see that look of ever-constant worry on his face be replaced with one of those smiles…

Maka sighs, watching him. She can't imagine what it must be like for him, being around this many people for the first time in one place, in a normal setting. She still doesn't know the details of his past—only that he walked the path of a Kishin, and that that path is one of despair, loneliness, and death—but she does know that because he was trained to be a living weapon, actual socialization with human beings isn't going to be an easy feat for him right away.

He needs for the transition from recluse to well-adjusted boy to be as smooth as it can be, Maka thinks, and so far, it's been a little awkward for him. Maybe it'd help if he didn't stand out so much?

"He _is _a he, right?" Black Star questions now.

"He's never corrected us if we're wrong," says Kid. "Besides, plenty of men wear dresses. I think it's perfectly normal."

"Does he have an Adam's apple?" Tsubaki asks.

"It's not like we could see it under the habit," Liz comments.

_It's not a habit, _Maka seethes in her head. She still keeps an eye on Crona in the distance.

"I say there's no way a guy could have hips like that," Black Star points out brashly.

Soul barks out another laugh. "Why're you staring at another guy's hips, dude?"

"I'm not!"

"If he were a girl would you think he was hot or something?"

"I didn't say that! I'm just saying, they look like girl-hips…"

"Don't be mean," Maka warns Black Star, turning to look at him.

"How's what I said mean?!"

"If you wanna know so bad whether or not he's a girl, why don't you just ask him?" Soul says.

"You can't just ask people stuff like that," Maka complains.

"We may be able to tell if he ever wears something form-fitting, or revealing," Liz says suggestively, smiling.

"I say we get Crona into some normal clothes so we can see!" exclaims Patty, banging a fist on the table in excitement. "Boy clothes! Or girl clothes!"

Crona's given up on trying to return to the line for more food—too many people crowding around, not enough resolve to deal with them—and returns with his empty tray, sitting back down next to Maka and sighing. His face is still somewhat somber, but Maka can feel his wavelength wrapping around hers, reaching out for comfort. She shifts a little closer to him on the bench, willing to comfort. She glances down at his hands, slightly trembling around the edges of the tray, and thinks for a moment about comforting them with her own hands…

But the rest of the table's gone suspiciously quiet in that obvious way that says that they were just talking about him. (And Black Star is tangibly trying too hard to _not_look at him, and Patty is grinning awkwardly.)

Maka can feel Crona tensing up next to her.

"What is it?" he says, blushing dark. He turns to look at Maka. "D-did I do something?"

"No Crona, you're fi—"

"We were just wondering why you wear the same black dress every day!" Patty chirps up.

Crona's wavelength constricts, and starts to tremble.

Maka feels bad that they're bringing it up. She knows they're just curious, but everytime he's questioned about his (recent) past in any capacity, she can feel the sheer nervousness that radiates from him.

It's not like he'd planned on surrendering to the DWMA on the night he had...not like he'd brought anything from home with him, wherever home even was. The gown he wears now _is_ always clean—he washes it by hand with soap and water each night in the dungeon showers, he told Maka the other day—but it occurs to Maka now: what if he doesn't _want_ to wear the stoic robes anymore?

_Has_ he ever worn anything else in his life?

It saddens her to imagine that he could've never had the choice before now.

"Well I, um..." Crona begins uneasily, glancing down at his lap, at the skirt pooled between his legs. "I-I've never had any other clothes, really..."

"Really? Like ever?" Black Star asks.

"Not even pajamas?" says Tsubaki.

"How does that still fit you if you've never had anything else?" Patty objects, ducking her head under the table to look for herself.

"Don't ask him so many questions," Maka grumbles.

"Money's no object here at the academy," says Kid to Crona now, and Crona still hasn't answered anyone, or looked anyone in the eye, "I'm sure there's something I can do to get you some new things to wear, if you'd like me to speak to my father."

"Oh, no, i-it's alright," Crona attempts, shifting uncomfortably, "I don't really n-need anything-"

"What about something like this?" Liz has pulled up an example of a sundress on her iPhone, and is holding out towards him now with a smile (and he retracts with a squeal like it's a weapon in his face). "I think it'd look _great_ on your figure."

He wraps his hands around his waist protectively, beginning to visibly sweat. "M-my figure?!"

"I know of a store that has stuff like that downtown!" Tsubaki supplies.

"We could take you shopping! How 'bout it Crona?!" Patty demands.

"I-uh-" Crona is shaking now, unable to handle so many people asking him things at once, "I-I, I don't know-"

"It's okay if you don't want to, Crona."

Crona glances over at Maka when she speaks to him, his arms still covering himself. When he looks at her, she feels the trembling in his soul wavelength start to calm down again.

She smiles reassuringly.

"You can wear whatever you want to while you're here."

She still looks him right in the eyes, and he still keeps up her gaze, and for a couple seconds it's like the noise around them has paused, and they're the only two people at the table, in the room.

And Maka feels warm just focusing on him, and getting him to focus on her.

"It's totally up to you," she says, and she brushes her shoulder against his playfully, gently. "Okay?"

Crona continues staring at her for a moment, and then, just a little, she can see the corner of his mouth shyly spread into a smile.

He ducks his head and stares down at his lap, if only to hide that smile that he's still insecure about showing.

His voice is perfectly level again when he speaks, as if there were never a disturbance on the front.

"Okay."

And getting him to listen to her voice-and _only _hers, not a chorus of several at once in a way that clearly disorients him-has just the effect on Crona that she hopes-the last of the trembling ceases and his soul wavelength becomes soothed.

And now she can sense that everyone at the table-especially Soul-is staring at her, and her apparent pacifist influence over the otherwise panicky alien-boy.

The lunch period resumes soon enough without the conversation being direct to or about Crona, which Crona silently appreciates; as Crona leaves to return to his room, and the others all head towards their next class, Soul nudges Maka in the arm and says something like, "You know how to speak Crona's language, huh?" and Maka tries to act like she doesn't know what he's talking about.

"What do you mean 'his language?'"

"I don't know. He gets freaked out like he might piss his pants whenever anybody but you tries to talk to him, or even look at'm." Soul smiles. "I think he likes you."

Maka rolls her eyes. Can't a boy and a girl be nice to each other for _a few days_ without people making assumptions? _Welcome to high school,_she reminds herself.

"He does not," she combats. "We're friends."

Soul says "Yeah we'll see how long that lasts on his end," and Maka spends the entire next class trying _not _to read into the fact that she's the only one who's made Crona smile since he got here.

**(~)**

It's something that most people take for granted, the freedom to dress themselves. And Crona has never experienced free will in any capacity, even with something as simple as the clothes he put on his back.

He was always_told_ everything he ever did; where to go, where to sleep, who to stalk and kill, and even what to say-_Yes ma'am, No ma'am, My blood is black_.

And that's why, later on that afternoon when he meets up with Maka, and the topic of clothes comes back into discussion, he realizes that he doesn't know the first thing about what he would be wearing if he'd had the choice. He doesn't know anything about choices; the fact that he's being told that he has many of them all the sudden makes him nervous.

Medusa used to tell him that the robe he wore was to make him blend into the darkness; so that he would not be seen at night when he went out to kill, so that he would not mistake himself as someone who was meant to be seen in the light. It represented the cloak of servitude to her that he didn't think he'd ever be able to take off-and besides the times he needed to wash it or himself, Crona _did _never take the robe off-

He didn't even like to look at his own body, let alone imagine anyone else seeing it.

But sitting across from Maka now, as they're sitting in his room picking through elaborate puzzle pieces...seeing the way the skin of her thighs peek out from her skirt, the way her sweater vest is pastel yellow like happiness, her tie a soothing green that matches her eyes...he wonders what that must be like, to be dressed in colors that make others feel warm inside when they look at you…

He wants to be like that, he thinks for a moment...only for the voice of self-hatred that lives in his head, the one that sounds like Medusa, to tell him, _Don't be stupid, child. You belong to me._

_You will never be like someone like her. You will never be close to her._

_Never be happy._

"Maka?"

Crona says her name almost without meaning to, to block out the voice in his head.

She looks up from the puzzle pieces at him, attentively, instantly, and it's strange, he thinks, how even just thinking about Maka or looking at Maka makes the constraints of his past seem so far away.

"What is it?"

He pulls at one of the sleeves of his robes.

"I was thinking." His eyes roam across her skirt, the hem of her sweater. "A-about what they were saying about at lunch. I do want to wear something else sometimes, maybe. Like um, normal clothes...like you do."

The smile that appears on Maka's face is absolutely wonderful.

"Do you want me to help you something out?" she asks. "There's some stores not far from here we could walk to, and my dad gave me gift cards to them for my birthday that I'm _never_ gonna use-" _I don't wanna give him the satisfaction,_she thinks stubbornly, she really hates accepting gifts from him-

Crona nods, and nearly smiles.

"I would like that," he says.

**(~)**

So, the puzzle discarded, the two of them take a ten minute's walk from the academy and into the shopping district of downtown.

When they head into a store that's intended for boys, Ragnarok makes an unwelcome appearance, much to Maka's chagrin.

"This is all wrong!" Ragnarok squeaks, leaning over to dangle himself in front of Maka's face. "This priss pot can't wear pants, have you looked at the kid?!" The weapon fists the hem of Crona's dress and tries to pull it up over Crona's head, to which Crona panics and fights to pull it back down- "Ragnarok, please! W-we're in public!"- "Take him to a store with lacy panties! And pink! And ballet skirts!"

Maka pulls a book out of (seemingly) thin air and smacks Ragnarok across the face with it, and the screech the weapon lets out draws the attention of everyone in the store (as if it wasn't already drawn).

"Hit me with that book in the face one more time, you fat cow!" Ragnarok threatens. "And just see what happens!"

"Go away! No one asked for your opinion!" Maka groans.

She clocks him in the face again. Crona is cowering in embarrassment now, and Ragnarok's finally rendered defenseless by the impact of the second Maka-chop, slithering back inside mumbling that "Maka's such a bitch."

"There's no such thing as 'boy clothes' or 'girl clothes,'" Maka tells Crona matter-of-factly, and she's completely regained her calmness, taking Crona's hand in hers and walking with him further into the store. "Don't listen to him and try on whatever you think looks nice."

Crona looks for the first time at just how much variety there is in the clothing choices. While there are no garments that have long skirts the way his familiar robe does, there are all different kinds of colors, and sleeve lengths, and pant lengths, and patterns...for a minute or two, after Maka lets go of his hand and begins to browse herself, he just stares at the racks upon racks and regrets ever coming to the store in the first place.

There's no way he's going to be able to pick anything from all these options...this is way too much pressure…what's a bust size? How do the numbers on the tags relate to anything? And why do the pants have so many pockets? What even _goes_ in there?

"I don't know how to deal with this," he says to himself outloud.

So he finds Maka and insists that she help him get started.

She doesn't want to impose her personal preferences on him at first, this whole trial enrollment is about _his_wants, and _his_choices, but she has to admit that the second she'd walked into the store, she'd seen about ten different outfits alone that would look cute on him.

She plucks several nice things off of hangers for him within seconds, and then cheerfully sends him on his way to the dressing rooms.

Before he goes in, and before she sits down in a chair just outside the changing room door, he stops to say something to her.

"Um, Maka? What Ragnarok said…" He pauses, looking embarrassed, glancing at the floor. "He's right, I've never really worn pants before…I don't know if they'll look right..."

Maka focuses her attention on his soul wavelength, focusing on the warm feeling of her own reaching out to reassure his.

"It's okay," she says. "If you don't like the way they look, we don't have to buy them."

He hesitates again for a moment, and then he says something that catches her a little off guard.

"H-he always says that I'm a girl, and my mother never told me what I was, but-y-you can call me a boy." His voice is quiet, unassuming...lifeless. "If you'd like."

Maka stares at him. Something like sadness grabs a hold of her, making a discomforting home for itself in her chest; it's a sorrowful, lonely sadness, that's coming from his soul wavelength and affecting her, she recognizes.

_His identity has never even been his own,_she recognizes, and suddenly the conversation her friends had about him earlier-_"He is a he, right?" "It's not like we could see it under the habit."-_makes her wonder just how many times he's been told that he can't be who he truly is.

"If _I'd_ like?" Maka repeats.

She steps forward, closer to him, and lightly pinches his cute little nose.

"Silly," she gently reprimands. Though her heart skips a beat as she does it, she runs the back of her fingers down his cheek, which is tinged with warmth from the blood rush beneath his skin; she just wants the sadness she feels to be alleviated in both of their souls.

She adds, quite seriously, "Whatever you wanna be called is up to you."

_No one can take who you are from you. No one._

Crona makes eye contact with her, and feels those butterflies in his stomach again, and _Maka is so terribly pretty, and so nice to me,_ he thinks as his stomach lurches.

Then politely, he says:

"A boy, then."

She gives him one of her signature grins. "Of course."

The sad wavelength evaporates as he turns and lets himself into the dressing room, replaced by one of ease again, and Maka thinks that being able sense exactly what he's feeling, right when he's feeling it, is _entirely_ too enticing to her at this point already.

Maka sits in the chair and puts her hand to her own face, which is just as warm as his was.

He comes out in a blue and white striped t-shirt, with tan slacks and brown suspenders for the first outfit. When he emerges, hands in pockets, expression shy, she's caught off guard by how, well, natural he looks in the attire.

The t-shirt is soft and slimming, fitting him almost perfectly, the sleeves stopping just beneath his narrow shoulders. This is the first time she's seen his arms, she realizes, and for all that he's a thin boy she can still see wiry muscle running down his biceps, his forearms. He does have a small waist, and the pants are a little too big, but the suspenders help keep them up and the way that one of the straps is slightly hanging off one shoulder, and the way he's standing with one hip slightly tilted, makes the simple outfit look as though he was made to wear it.

He's staring rather resolutely at the floor, nervous beneath her lovely gaze. He's trembling, and his mind is filled with negative voices, just at the fact that his scarred arms and neck are exposed to her, that parts of his bare body are being displayed for no reason relating to his purpose. _Your body is not yours-this skin is not yours to reveal-your body is a vessel for the black blood-you are my child-_

"Perfect!" Maka says, standing up from her chair and showing him ten fingers.

Crona's wide eyes meet hers, her voice snapping him out of his thoughts.

"R-really?"

"Uh huh."

He looks over at one of the mirrors on the wall nearby. Looks at himself in the new, airy, and normal clothes.

He still doesn't really know how to deal with mirrors. Seeing his own reflection is strange in and of itself, as it always solidifies the fact that the boy called Crona really exists...it makes him almost uncomfortable in his existence. Crona sees himself, his lavender wisps of hair, his skeletal body, and watches as Maka comes to stand beside him, staring at him also in the mirror.

"Well?" she says, rocking back onto her heels happily. "What do you think?"

He thinks about the way that she looks standing next to him. About the fact that he is a boy, and she is a normal girl, and he is outside in the daylight right now, and she is his friend.

Crona thinks, as he shifts around slightly in the soft, new clothes, that maybe this is what being a human is supposed to look and feel like.

"I...I like it," he decides, softly.

There is no punishment waiting for him as he speaks his mind...no reprimand for his feelings, no mistake being made in having an opinion about himself.

So he says it again. "I like it."

They spend the rest of the afternoon in the store playing dress up, mixing and matching the colorful clothing that Maka brings to him, and Crona likes it.

With every new outfit Crona tries on, the wide and wider the smile on his face grows; he's still not sure about _all_of the outfits, still not sure how he'll ever stop the butterflies from flickering in his stomach whenever Maka tells him that she likes this too, that she likes _him_too...but it's all practice, though perhaps he doesn't realize it yet. It's practice for him, facing this version of himself in the mirror, this version of Crona who was unseen, empty, merely a vessel for darkness, until right now.

_I exist,_Crona says to the reflection in the mirror, in his head.

_There I am, I'm real._

_I can look happy._

They leave spending all four hundred dollars of Maka's gift cards.

They leave, and Crona doesn't wear the clothes that she bought for him to school at first, but saves them for the times when she comes to visit in his room, when it's just the two of them.

He still wears the robes in the eyes of everyone else, but when it's just the two of them, Crona begins to practice being himself, for the very first time.


	4. 028 Gift

**A/N: **Sorry this took a little longer than the others have! I had to figure out how exactly I wanted to plot out the next two or three, since they're going to lead up to something special~

Also it's CroMa Week on Tumblr, so if you're reading this, you should head over there draw or write a little something for this wonderful ship (:

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**028. Gift**

_- September 26, 2009 -_

"When's your birthday, Crona?"

Maka asks him as their group of friends stands in the busy school hallway chatting excitedly about their plans to celebrate Tsubaki's birthday that night. She and Crona are sort of off to the side - they tend to do that lately, naturally, on their own accord - and she asks him in a voice that she's realized is reserved just for him.

Crona seems more willing to answer the question than he usually is. He looks a little surprised that she's asking, rather than nervous or upset.

He doesn't look at her though. His cool, dark eyes are spacey, fixated on something far away.

"I don't have one," he answers, resigned.

Maka doesn't think she should be surprised. However, she can't imagine what it must be like not knowing your own birthday, not having anything significant to mark the passage of time. What would _she_ do? How would she count?

Maka quirks her lips to the side, thoughtful. "She...didn't tell you when you were born," she mentions. The_ Medusa_ in "she" is implied.

Crona nods. He then finally looks over at her, eyes still washed over.

"I know that I've been here for sixteen years or so," he says, "I saw that she had written it down somewhere once, but um, I'm not really sure what day." The_ it doesn't really matter_ that punctuates that quiet, little sentence is also implied, and Maka almost physically feels it.

"And I…" He pauses, arms covering himself slightly, voice more unsure. "I wasn't really 'born,' she told me. She said that I was made."

_Ouch._

Maka isn't sure how to read the blank look on his face, or the sadness that she feels wanting to close in around her soul, so she smiles at him. Sympathetic, understanding, not needing him to say much more.

Crona smiles too, then shyly looks away, running a hand up and down his arm absently (and Maka feels a soothing heat press against her chest, and _there it is again,_ she thinks. Every time he shares something personal with her, she can feel his soul wavelength connecting with hers, sharing its positive energy and light and it's all she can think about at the time.)

Though her face is flushed, and the feeling she gets from him is distracting, she continues talking.

"Do you want a birthday?" she asks of him now.

Crona frowns a little, and then lets out a small, confused laughed. "But that doesn't make any sense, Maka...how could I have one?"

"Well birthdays aren't really about the day you were born. It's more having one special day a year that's just about you, and having people around you to celebrate with. With that being said, it could be any day you wanna make it, really.

"And, it's also about gifts," Maka adds, smiling more. "I say there's never a bad time to accept thoughtful presents from the people that care about you."

Crona looks as though he's pondering this in his head.

"What kind of gifts do you get on birthdays?" he posits.

"Things that your friends know you like," Maka says. "Things that make you happy. Memories you can always remember."

Crona watches Tsubaki and the others for a moment - watches the way they crowd around her, make her laugh, and how happy she's looked today.

Still not looking at her, he says, "What's the gift that's made you the happiest, Maka?"

And Maka watches what he's watching-the camaraderie of her friends, Soul, Black Star, Tsubaki, the others, how they'll always have each other to fall back on no matter what happens-and gets a nice feeling just thinking about it.

"Having people in my life to share things with," she states soundly.

Crona glances at her, gets that flustered look about him again, and has to look away before another smile begins to tremble its way across his face.

_I like sharing things with you, Maka…_

"We can come up with a birthday for you together, if you decide you wanna," Maka says to him now, nudging him in the shoulder lightly with her own. "Just let me know, okay?"

He nods, though he can't imagine accepting anything fancy from Maka if that day were to ever come. If anything, he should be giving her a gift for the way that she's helped him finally come into the real world.

Maybe he will sometime soon?

"When is your birthday, Maka?"

She grins. "December 7th! We'll celebrate that together too~"

(+)

There's a small party at Kid's house early in the evening that day - short, sweet, and with close friends-plus-Crona, since it's a school night (and despite Black Star's insistence that she get drunk on a Tuesday, Tsubaki wants to make it on time to class...she can't say the same for him as she lugs him off of Kid's doorstep, however). Crona is still a little distant from everyone, watching and observing rather than joining, getting flustered whenever he's addressed, but he seems to have a good time at his very first birthday party. He makes a mental note of the presents that all of them gave to Tsubaki - they were personalized, and thoughtful, some bought from a store but others handcrafted, still others in the form of a poetic letter (Maka's gift in particular).

He leaves early, a little too overwhelmed by an hour straight of socialization-plus-"borrowed" beer he doesn't know how to deal with drinking. Once he's settled in his dungeon room, and has managed to finish some homework without Ragnarok threatening to (or actually) eating it, Maka calls him through his mirror and asks if everything's okay, if he'd like her to stay over again like she had the last couple of nights, to help quell his insomnia.

"As long as you two aren't plannin' on makin' any babies!" Ragnarok interrupts before Crona can answer, "I'm in this body too y'know, and I don't wanna deal with any fluids that aren't Crona's, that's shitty enough already!"

("Would you knock it off?!" retorts Maka, and Crona is so flustered [and confused] by the mention of making babies that he drops the mirror on the floor because of how badly he's shaking from embarrassment.)

She comes over, tired from the long school day, and it's not long before the two of them climb into Crona's bed, and Maka gives a cheerful "Goodnight!" before setting her alarm to wake up long before classes. Maka sleeps as far over on the wall-side as she can, and Crona stays as close to the other edge as he can; and their bodies don't touch. He still can't sleep for most of the night, but not because of nightmares, or paralyzing darkness, or the fear that he may wake up tomorrow to find that this is all a dream: it's because he's too paralyzed by the fact that she's there, that he even has a bed to begin with and that someone who cares about him is in it, he stares at her back, watching it rise and fall with her breath, and thinks: _don't move. Don't disturb her._

_She is real. Don't do anything that might make her disappear._

For two hours, he's wound tight, anxiously thinking of nothing more than actively trying not to move a muscle (and trying not to make any quick movements and noises that'll trigger Ragnarok's appearance). Then after that, he starts to relax some, tension relieving in his body...and Maka turns onto her other side in her sleep eventually, so that he can see her sleeping face in the lamplight.

He's breathless, still motionless, but a sort of peace starts to make its way into his soul as he thinks about the day they had today, as well as all the others. Maka is my friend, she is real, he thinks, and she's so good to him.

Sure, so Crona has never received a birthday gift. Or any gift wrapped in paper that is tangible, for that matter. But gifts are only given so that the recipient is happy, right? It's not about what the gift looks like, or if it's even tangible or measurable. Receiving a gift is about the feeling one gets from it, and well, Crona thinks: this feeling that he gets while being next to Maka, even when she speaks no words and when looking at him with those eyes, is irreplaceable, and he's felt nothing like her thus far.

Crona will come to find that the fact that Maka was ever born, her existence alone, is a gift in and of itself.


	5. 034 Entwined

**034. Entwined**

_- September 29, 2009 -_

One morning, Maka wakes up at five a.m. with Crona beside her, and realizes he hasn't slept.

He's far away from her in his bed, or at least farther away than he had been when she'd fallen asleep seven hours ago. The last few nights they've begun sleeping in a way that allowed them to touch, usually their ankles crossing or their hands gently clasped whereas before they'd stayed religiously on their own "sides."

But right now, he is distant, on his back, and stiffly staring at the ceiling.

His eyes droop terribly, the dark circles are amplified, but his lids don't close. He looks like he's been there, deep in thought, for a long time.

"Crona?"

When she speaks he only startles a little bit, then turns his head to look at her.

He looks exhausted.

"Did you sleep?" she asks, even though she knows.

Crona shakes his head.

Maka shifts around so that she is on her side instead of her back, but still keeps her distance.

"I'm sorry if I woke you at all." She smiles a little. "Soul says I kick him in my sleep sometimes, although that may just be because he's him."

"Oh, n-no, it was nothing like that," Crona assures her.

She watches as the dark blush creeps onto his face the longer he stares at her.

"You hardly moved at all..." he says.

Like a perfect angel.

Among other thoughts that were keeping him awake-worrying about classes, worrying about social settings, worrying about worrying-the fact Maka is wearing a thin nightgown instead of pajama pants is currently the most taxing.

During the night she tossed and turned a bit, and the fabric of the gown kept moving up higher and higher, showing him all of her thigh in the dim light, and…

He kept shifting further away from her each time, embarrassed that he wanted to look at her legs and trying not to look and...and why was it that he wanted to look?

Crona doesn't understand it…has never had it explained to him, attraction. It feels somewhat uncomfortable, hot and prickly, and dizzying to his body...but something about that dizziness is…good, too? The way it heats up his entire face, and makes his brain feel like it's floating. He likes it when Maka's skin touches his own...but he's never wanted to touch someone else's skin like this before her...

Even early this morning, with her legs (somewhat) recovered by the nightgown fabric…

Maka is his friend, and she would not keep them covered unless they were meant to be hidden.

"Even though I couldn't sleep, I—feel fine," he tries to assure her.

Maka can tell that's not true. However, she just wants to help him in any way she can, so she doesn't press it.

He studies her face, expression growing somewhat sad. His eyes trail down from her hairline to her jawline, and finally rest on the fading scar on her neck.

He tentatively touches it; his fingertips are coarse.

"Oh, that's from the last time I fought you." Maka says. She smiles gently, wistfully. "Those blood rejection spikes are pretty sharp, huh?"

Crona does not look amused; his eyes go wide and his hand instantly trembles.

Maka's smile fades instantly. "Crona, I didn't mean-"

"I don't know how you can be f-fiends with me, when I…" his fingers scrunch away from the scar, and he looks pained. "When I've hurt you so much." Aside, "And Soul..."

Maka grabs onto his hand, tight, and slides in closer to his body.

The look in her deep green eyes is determined. He has no idea how she's able to look so strong all the time…

"It's okay, I promise," she says, and squeezes his hand. "I'm not mad at you, you know that, right? I never was. I'm really glad you're here, Crona."

Maka feels a warm constriction press in around her soul as his fingers tense around hers, and when that happens while they're in his bed, she always feels magnetically drawn to moving in closer to him. As she shifts to get even more comfortable, to draw the two of them nearer to each other, he feels her leg kinda-sorta slip between his under the sheets.

His stomach flips; then feels like it might twist itself into a knot. His throat feels tight…the skin of her legs is so soft…his face is hot…what is this feeling? He's never known...

"D-do you really mean that?" he rambles off, "That you're glad I'm here? I…"

He moves his leg a little so that it rubs against hers. She's so warm.

"I don't know how someone like me is supposed to fit in around people as nice as you."

Maka shakes her head.

"But you are nice. The nicest."

"I can't be nice. Not after…"

He looks very serious for a moment, and glances downward.

It's spoken in a whisper:

"Not after all those dead people."

Maka feels a shiver run down her spine.

She doesn't really know what to say here. Hasn't, for the last week. She isn't sure what exactly all those dead people entails, but lately, he's been using this particular phrasing.

How many people was it…? she wants to ask; she gulps down the lump in her throat. She can see some of the scars on his neck, the shadows under his eyes, and anger towards Medusa for him constricts her chest. That must be what he's talking about.

But those eyes...innocent but broken...she tells him, anyway,

"No one blames you for those things."

He shakes his head again, this time slower.

"T-that's what everyone has said, but." Crona looks defeated. "How can you all just not care? H-how's that possible?"

"It just is." She takes his hand in both of hers, pus her forehead against his to make sure he knows.

"That's what second chances are, Crona. That's forgiveness..."

"Forgiveness…"

He doesn't realize it, but as he ducks his head to hide the coloration of his cheeks, his head rests against her forehead, and it makes Maka's heart skip a beat because he's so close.

…Sleeping next to each other, so that he didn't feel alone at night, was one thing. Maka did it with Soul sometimes when either of them couldn't sleep; she did it with Tsubaki often. Friends sleeping side by side was one thing; but being so close in a bed that their limbs almost entwine? Being so close that she can hear Crona's breathing, rough, trying to slow itself?

Aren't they supposed to just be friends? She tells herself she would do this for anybody. That she would want to hold hands with any friend this often, that she would tangle her legs with a friend's, that she would find herself instinctively wanting to stroke Crona's hair with her hand, to maybe kiss his forehead to soothe…

Stop it, she tells herself. He didn't say you could do such things. He…

Crona tilts his head back up to look her in the eye.

"Maka," he mutters. "I…"

He swallows, and Maka watches the way his scarred skin pulls tight over the lump.

"I-I've never been this close to another person before."

She starts to pull away, right away.

"I'm sorry, Crona. I didn't mean to—"

But when she tries to move her hands away from his, something in him instinctively vice-grips him them in his own, hard.

Ow…

"I'm sorry, i-it's just, you're the first person who's ever touched me, my mother…She never used to touch me."

He's frowning, looking like he wants to say more…it's good for him to talk about these things, Maka things, to realize that the way he used to live, without touch, without anyone who told him they cared for him, was not okay, and not the way he was supposed to live.

She studies their fingers—his longer, drier and bonier than hers—as he tries to find the words he wishes to use.

"It just…feels like a lot, all of a sudden, when you touch me," he decides on, letting his eyes slip shut, "like…like the feelings may break into my skin."

Maka's heart skips a beat.

"Kind of scary, right?" she says, trying to smile.

"Yes."

He presses his lips together slowly, and for the first time, she thinks that he's so close that she'd like to kiss those lips.

That wouldn't be fair. She closes her eyes, abrupt, and doesn't let herself imagine it.

They're friends.

…He should probably get some rest.

When Crona opens his eyes, Maka shows him her brightest smile.

He looks like it catches him off guard; it does. It always does.

"Why don't you try to get some sleep?" Maka encourages him. "We do have class today. We don't have to be so close, so you can be comfortable." She finally lets her hand slip from his, settling her body just out of his reach.

"I'll be here."

He nods, and his voice is so tired and quiet she can barely hear it.

"Right..."

Within moments, he does fall asleep.

She stays awake. She's never actually seem him asleep before…she wonders now if this is always how it is, if he ever gets a chance to rest when she's out cold or if he always stares at the ceiling. Maybe she should keep watch over him more often.

Crona is a restless sleeper; his body twitches and spasms minutely, he grinds his teeth and bites his own lip. Maybe he's having bad dreams…she puts her hand near his, but not on it, and as if he can feel it there, his crawls on top of hers, tugging on it firmly. She obliges, and he keeps tugging…his breathing hitching uneasily, his brow pinched firmly, he eventually pulls her in and starts to curls up against her, clutching her tight like she's a body pillow, legs sliding up against hers and oh.

Maka realizes how it feels to hold him.

To wrap her arms around his bony frame. He's half on top of her, his hard jawline pressing into her chest, she can feel his ribcage prodding at her as it rises and falls at her side.

His fingers press into her forearm here and there, his nails like tiny little pricks. He sounds short of breath here and there and a few times, he mutters, "stop…stop, stop it, please…" and vice-grips her arm hard like he's trying to feel the bare bone.

She has to bite her own lip to keep from reacting out loud.

_What's going on in there? This…isn't very much like sleep at all,_ she thinks uneasily.

She ends up letting him lay with her for over an hour, surprised that for all his jostling and twitching, he doesn't actually wake on his own. All the while his little voice mumbles, and his coarse hands, confused, grapple with her skin and bones, minutely pushing some, pulling some.

At one point, he nestles his face against her collarbone like he needs the affection very much, humming a soft, sad note, and god, she wants to kiss him to ease his sorrows.

The urge to kiss him would not subside for some time.


	6. 020 Artwork

**A/N: **Once again, thanks for your comments/favorites, if you're leaving them! ^^

* * *

**020. Artwork**

_- October 1st, 2009 –_

Being a trial student at the Academy does come with its conditions. In addition to attending classes, Crona has also been assigned weekly check-ups and therapy appointments with Stein and Nygus, to make sure that he's remaining mentally stable during his school days.

While Stein's appointments have more to do with Crona's physical condition (his malnourishment and internal injuries, the black blood's toxins and how they affect his chemistry), Nygus's are more focused on his psychological condition (how he's been feeling, dealing with his memories, coming up with better ways to "deal with things").

By the third week of therapy, Crona isn't sure he's improved much…or at all. The first appointment had consisted of him only vaguely answering Nygus's questions about his background (and by the end he'd almost scratched his own forearm raw due to his nervous tick). The second and third were not quite as nerve-racking, but still intimidating; more Nygus talking than him talking, telling him that the feelings of discomfort he's having have names like _chronic social anxiety _and _disassociation _and _body dysmorphic disorder; _telling him not to be scared, not to worry, because with medicine and therapy, all of these things _are _fixable. (Though, Crona's not so sure how he feels about that…since he's never been any other way, it sort of sounds impossible.)

The fourth is appointment better, or at least much less scary and daunting. When Crona walks into the nurse's office, Nygus is waiting for him, and a blank sheet of paper and two pencils are placed on the table in front of his seat.

"As a part of your intake, I'm going to have you draw some pictures," she explains once he sits, jotting something down on her own clipboard. "They're just to help me get to know you a little better, okay?"

Crona tilts his head, nervous. "Pictures?"

"Don't worry, I'll tell you what kind of picture to draw before you start." Nygus makes steady eye contact with him. "Is that okay?"

Crona isn't sure he knows what she means yet, but he tentatively reaches for one of the pencils and pulls the sheet of paper closer to him, nodding solemnly.

"For the first one, I want you to draw a picture of a house. As best you can."

Crona freezes, pencil clenched in hand. Picturing the only house he ever knew, the dark and creaky place he used to live in with Medusa, makes him feel itchy and nervous, and sort of sick. Makes him feel like she's still out there waiting for him, like this is all a dream or a hallucination and—

"D-does it have to be my house?" he blurts out, staring harshly at the blank sheet of paper.

"It can be any house."

When did his heart start beating so hard? He shuts his eyes, his rapid pulse kind of scaring him. _Breathe, _he can hear a little voice telling him, one that sounds a lot like Maka's… _You're not there anymore. You are here._

Crona opens his eyes, begins to etch his nails into the wood of the pencil.

"I've only ever lived in one house," he says, "I um, didn't like it there much…I don't like to think about it…"

Nygus still looks calm as ever.

"You can draw an imaginary house if you want to," she tells him.

_Imaginary? _Crona puts the lead to the paper, and tries to think. To "imagine," as she put it.

But he's seen all kinds of houses before. There are shacks, there are apartments, there are mansions…plus all the different kinds of architecture, gothic, Spanish, modern, and a variety of heights and depths and square footage. His hand starts to tremble, and he stares at the harsh whiteness of the paper, and feels stuck.

_What kind of house does she want? What if she doesn't like the house I make?_

Think, think: he's broken into houses before, late at night; those were most of the times he ever saw houses that weren't Medusa's. Some houses have hardwood floors, and some have carpet…and blood always sept into the carpet more than the wood…some have tall walls, some have short, and some walls can be broken down entirely by his black blood, leaving ruins in their midst…

Walls can be made of stones or bricks _or_ cement, right? _What do I choose? _He taps the pencil on the paper erratically. _And which wall do I draw first? How many bricks should there be? _His arm twitches, sweat beads on his forehead…and_ then_ there are roof types, too, and chimneys, and different styles of windows, and porches and doorsteps and doorbells, and, and, and…

"Do you feel like the academy is your home now?"

Nygus's voice pulls him out of his thoughts. Crona focuses on her face, or of what he can see of it beneath the bandages. Mostly he can just see her large, ice-colored eyes.

"Well I um, I don't have anywhere else to go," he says, to her question.

He pauses for a moment to look around the nurse's office, at the yellow walls and the pure white cots and the cabinets full of medicine. This is the first room he remembers waking up in on his first day here, being observed by Stein before being transported to that lonely dungeon. He spent time here, and then down there, and then he got to be friends with Maka, and has spent the rest of his time at the Academy with her.

And being friends with Maka _does _sorta feel like a new home.

"I think so, yes," Crona says. "This place is my home."

Nygus smiles; or at least, Crona can see the way the corners of her eyes crinkle beneath the tape.

"Then why don't you draw a picture of your room here at the academy?" she suggests.  
"As best you can."

Now that he has a clear image of the room in mind, Crona's able to get to work. He closes his eyes first, recalling how his dingy room looks when he's standing in the doorway; the texture of the floor tiles, the height of the brick walls, the placement of the furniture, the places where the light shines in through the glass window. When he opens them, he begins sketching _very_ carefully, erasing and starting over if the work isn't just right; lines must be perfectly straight, shading must be perfectly even, details like the fabric of the comforter and the weaving on the lampshade must be perfectly accurate. He's nervous, but he's trying really hard, and he's going to be observed and judged for this, so it has to look exactly the way it does in real life, that's what she must be expecting…

At one point, Nygus looks up at the clock on the wall, and then looks back to her clipboard and clears her throat. Crona freezes.

"A-am I taking too long?" he asks, staring wearily at the unfinished drawing. _Please give me another chance, I'm sorry it's not done-_

"Take as long as you feel like you need to."

'As long as he feels like he needs to' ends up being a slow, winding, additional forty-five minutes. And Crona's hand is beginning to cramp a little as he finishes the last of the wood-paneling on the bedpost. He wipes away the eraser shavings, careful not the smudge the lead, and then gives a small little sigh, holding the paper out to Nygus like a peace offering.

"There."

She takes it from him, the literally life-like rendition of the DWMA dungeon, and her eyes grow wide like she's stunned.

"Wow."

Crona shifts in his chair. "Is it okay?"

"You're very talented." She stares at it for a while, and her eyes crinkle again. Then she puts the drawing on her clipboard, placing another blank sheet in front of him. _Oh, there's more? _Crona thinks, a little dreadfully.

"I'm impressed, Crona. Where did you learn to draw like that?" she asks, making a note to herself.

The times he used to draw before, Medusa used to make him draw bodies. Organs, peeled back skin, torn blood vessels, just like those illustrations from the simple story about killing people. It was all just practice, she'd said, for what he'd been born to do…and sometimes, when he got _really _into it, he even used his own black blood to paint them, it _was _like ink, and it _was _permanent…

"I've always known how," Crona mutters.

He feels like a knot is tying in his stomach. _You shouldn't be thinking about those bad things, not anymore…_

He glances around the room again; Maka isn't here to distract him from the memory of Medusa standing over him as he painted diagram after diagram, throwing him back into that room if the artwork wasn't good enough…although maybe if he closes his eyes, and pictures Maka smiling at him…

He takes a deep breath, shuts his eyes. As he exhales, Medusa starts to leave his head, and Maka appears.

Warmth begins to spread across his skin.

"Crona?"

Nygus pulls him back into focus.

"Are you ready for the next drawing?"

"Oh." He picks up the pencil, nodding resolutely. "Yes."

"Now, I want you to draw a picture of someone of the opposite sex."

He pauses, and his legs close a little.

"A-a girl you mean?"

Nygus nods, eyes doing the crinkle-thing again.

He pictures Maka in his mind immediately; one of the only girls he's ever known, and the nicest at that. He starts to draw her on the paper, focusing on the details of her he's stored in his memory…the way her skirt folds over her legs, the stitching in her vest, the little curve of her waist, her thin wrists, her big, bold eyes…she's so pretty, easy as sunshine to draw, so comfortable a memory that he can recreate her in this little book, he smiles and feels warm all over as he focuses on her image…

When he's done, nearly another half hour later, he shows Nygus.

She looks very happy.

"You should show this to her," she says, and Crona thinks she sounds happy too. "She'd think it's beautiful."

He ducks his head, blushing. Maybe…or maybe she would think it was weird…

"I don't know about that."

Nygus stares at the picture a moment longer.

"That's all the time we have for drawing today."

She takes the drawing from him. Then she reaches over and pulls a large, spiral-bound sketchbook out of a drawer in her desk.

"But if you'd like," she says, slipping his drawing of Maka into the book, and then placing the book on the table. "Maybe you could keep drawing before the next time I see you."

He perks up a little, at that. He stares at the book.

"If you feel up to it, draw anything that comes to mind, and put it in this book. How's that sound?"

The sketchbook is beautiful. The cover is shiny, bronze, and covered in vines; the paper inside is thick and expensive. He picks it up and holds it to his chest.

"I can have this?" he says, his cheeks coloring.

"Sure. You don't have to bring it back or show me the drawings, if you don't want to. But it may help you keep your mind off things. If you're ever feeling upset, you can draw a picture."

He nods, and smiles. This reminds him of something Maka has told him before…

"Could I maybe write poems in here, too?" he asks. "I-it's just that, Maka tells me that I should write poems when I'm upset." He tugs at one of his sleeves a little. "It helps."

"Of course. That's a great idea, Crona."

He leaves feeling like the fourth therapy appointment was more than just better.

(+)

Maka has been helping Crona in all of the classes they have together, doing homework with him in her special corner of the library, or in his room.

A day after his appointment, as they're walking to his room to do homework, she notices the fancy notebook he's been carrying with all of his regular books, and tells him it's nice.

"It's a sketchbook," he says. "Nygus gave it to me."

Maka smiles. "I didn't know you could draw," she says, nudging him in the arm affectionately.

"Only a little," he says, modest.

After about an hour or two of studying, Maka starts to fall asleep on Crona's bed where she was reading, tired from the long day of extra resonance practices, her books open and sprawled out on the comforter. The sun is setting, casting a gold glow on the bed, and once Crona glances over at her sleeping form once, he finds that he can't stop looking.

Maka let her hair down earlier, so now, it's pooled in soft, sleek strands on his sheets. In the sun, her skin looks like it's literally glowing, and her lashes are fanned across her cheeks and she looks so peaceful, chest rising and falling with her breath.

Then she makes a noise that sounds like a whistle and snore, though it's quick, and probably the cutest snore he's ever heard. He blushes and smiles; it's kind of dorky and she does it at night sometimes too, and it always reminds him that he's not alone in the bed when he can't sleep.

_Since when did he get so lucky, to have her in his life?_

Without looking at her anymore, his heartbeat fluttering fast, he slowly reaches over for the sketchbook on the desk. He opens it up to a new page, and glancing shyly over at her, begins to copy the angel who's somehow crash-landed in his bed onto the page. She really is beautiful, on paper, and in life…

"You do realize how pathetic and creepy this is, right?!"

Crona gasps and the lead of the pencil snaps as Ragnarok bursts out and thuds his full weight on Crona's head.

"Ragnarok, please," Crona begs hoarsely, miserably, "S-she'll wake up, p-please be quiet—"

"Hey, Maka!" Ragnarok screeches, "Crona here's gone all voyeur and he draws you while you sleep! Next thing you know he'll be following you to the sh—"

Yelping, Crona uppercuts Ragnarok before he can say anymore, and then quickly rips the paper out of the sketchbook, crunching it and throwing it under the desk. The weapon lets out a dramatic wail as he slips back beneath Crona's skin, and Maka's now woken up at the commotion, rubbing her eyes.

"Sorry to wake you." Crona shuts the sketchbook, pushes it to the side, and places a textbook in front of his face to act like he was reading it. "Ragnarok doesn't have an inside voice."

Maka yawns, sitting back up on the bed.

"It's okay." She looks around at her books, and then at Crona.

"Maybe you should talk to Professor Stein about a way of getting rid of him," she says with a lazy smile, only half-joking.

Crona feels a bulge of blood pulse at his back, but gratefully the skin doesn't break, and Ragnarok holds his tongue.

…With his foot, Crona nudges the crumpled up sheet of paper on the floor further away from the two of them.

(+)

Later, they're taking a study break. Maka is sitting on the desktop, and Crona in the chair. She's braiding and unbraiding her hair, telling stories about how she and all her friends met. Crona is listening, and watching her deftly moving fingers with intrigue.

At one point, at a natural pause in her words, she eyes the sketchbook curiously.

"So what kind of things do you like to draw?" Maka asks.

"I've only drawn what Nygus told me to draw, so far," he explains. "And, there's only one picture."

She looks like she wants to open the book, but he knows she won't ask. And the drawing of her, hidden just there beneath the cover, feels like it's irritating him, like a rash that won't go away.

He's nervous about her knowing that he (now, apparently) draws pictures of her; but, at the same time, he'd give her anything, if she asked…She's done so much for him lately, staying in his room every night, holding him while he sleeps, holding his hands, hugging him close…

"You can look at it," he says softly. "If you want to."

"Really?" she picks it up and puts it on her lap. "Are you sure?"

"Well, it was sorta your idea." He slips his fingertips beneath his sleeves, scratches at his forearm. "You always tell me that it helps to write a poem, so when I told Nygus, she suggested I keep everything in a book."

Maka is more eager to see his artwork than she probably should be; not so much because she's expecting it to be a masterpiece, although the poem she'd read of his was extremely moving, but more so because art is often an insight into a person's innermost thoughts.

When she opens the book, she's more than surprised to find that the first and only drawing is none other than the splitting-pencil-image of herself, pigtails, plaid skirt and all.

"Wow, _Crona..._"

And it's so _realistic._ Any ordinary person must've had to draw something like this while looking at her as a reference, but he didn't, it was all from _memory_ and he even knew how to shape her eyes, how to draw her smile, what her proportions were, the exact way her gloves fit…

As she holds the image in her hands, she thinks that this is one of the most romantic things she's ever seen.

It simultaneously dawns on her that he must not even realize that.

Watching her stare at his picture is like watching an accident happen; he doesn't wanna look, he knows he doesn't 'cause he's nervous, but he_ has_ to know what she thinks, the feeling is clawing at his chest. She's voiced her approval and she looks very touched, her eyes are lit up like fireworks and she wears such_ joy_ so well that it makes him wanna pass out at the sight.

"Nygus asked me to draw someone of the opposite sex in therapy, and I," he stops, the rush of blood to his head a little too dizzying for a moment. "You're the first girl I thought of."

"Can I keep this?" She reaches over to hold his hand, tangling her fingers in his and then squeezing solidly. She makes eye contact with him hopefully, eyes still shining.

"Of course."

Crona swallows, flustered by their hand contact, and then quieter, shakier, but sure, staring at their tousled hands, he mutters,

"You can have anything, Maka."

He would give anything to see her eyes light up in front of him like they just did, over and over and over.

…And Maka, staring at the picture, is having a _really _hard time with that urge to kiss this innocent boy now.


End file.
